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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26349385">5 times Basil Hallward thought about kissing Dorian Gray and 1 time he really, really didn't</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtles_to_the_max/pseuds/turtles_to_the_max'>turtles_to_the_max</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5 Times, Canon-Typical Violence, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, starts out fluffy and then gets angstier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:33:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,288</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26349385</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtles_to_the_max/pseuds/turtles_to_the_max</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Just like it says on the tin.</p><p>Rated Teen for occasional mild language and canon-typical violence.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dorian Gray/Basil Hallward (one-sided)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>1.</p><p>“Give my hat back, Dorian.”</p><p>“No,” Dorian says.</p><p>They’re sitting in a field of sunflowers, Basil’s half-finished canvas in front of them. It’s a dull painting really, one he doesn’t really want to do, and it’s made no easier by the distraction next to him: a distraction that, after sitting in dreamy silence for half an hour, snatched the hat off Basil’s head without a word of warning. Why does Dorian Gray want two hats? God alone knows. It was easier to play along.</p><p>Basil turns away from his painting to mock-glare at Dorian, sticking his hand out. “Hat. Back.”</p><p>“No,” Dorian repeats, a brilliant smile on his lips.</p><p>Basil lifts his eyes fully from the sunflowers to glare at Dorian, and any pretense he could keep up of being annoyed disappears. The noonday sun strikes off Dorian’s head, immersing him in a halo of gold, sets his blue eyes alight. Basil has to look away.</p><p>One day, he vows to himself, he will paint this boy.</p><p>“Here. How do I look?” Dorian jams Basil’s hat on top of his own.</p><p>
  <em> Dorian Gray, if there were any man in the world who could pull off wearing two hats, it would be you. </em>
</p><p>“Like a fool,” Basil says, smiling despite himself, trying to supress the surge of emotion in his chest. “Now give. It. Back.”</p><p>Dorian smiles, takes the hat off, twirls it teasingly around his finger. “No.”</p><p>Basil makes a lunge for it, but the sun is in his eyes - that’s all, just the sun, not Dorian’s distracting features, not the fact that he looks far too good in Basil’s hat, not that this is his child’s game and Basil wants nothing more than to play along - and he misses.</p><p>The hat vanishes from sight, then reappears once more, and Basil makes a few halfhearted swipes at it before giving up. The painting. He came here to paint, and why do sunflowers look so much brighter when Dorian Gray is sitting next to him?</p><p>Basil feels the hat being jammed back on to his head, and Dorian settles down next to him. “How much longer will this take, Basil?”</p><p>“An hour, maybe,” Basil says, picking up his abandoned paintbrush. </p><p>Dorian sighs dramatically and presses closer to Basil, who tries not to jump. <em> The painting</em>, he tells himself. <em> Focus on the painting. </em></p><p>Which works for about five minutes. Until Basil hears another sigh, long and weary, and Dorian Gray’s head is resting on his shoulder, his fingers lightly brushing against Basil’s.</p><p>The heat. The sun. The heady scent of the fields behind them. The brush of Dorian’s hair against his cheek, so casual and yet so intimate, these moments so precious Basil can hardly stand it…</p><p>“It’s too hot for this,” Basil grumbles, pushing Dorian away.</p><p>For the next hour, they do not touch, and Basil finishes the painting in silence.</p><p> </p><p>2.</p><p> </p><p>Basil can’t sleep.</p><p>For the last hour he’s been tossing and turning, watching the events of the day unfold over and over and over again. That cursed party, how Henry kept Dorian distracted for half the night, entrancing the boy with tales of mystery and sin, of the triumph of Beauty, the disdain for the lowly common world, strange philosophies and exotic dreams replacing the dull mechanics of common life, curious rituals and always, always, always, the quest for eternal youth…</p><p>Harry is a good storyteller, Basil knows that, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t sometimes drawn to the webs Henry spun himself. But occasionally Henry would look away from Dorian with a wink at Basil, his aura dropping momentarily and returning just as quickly when Dorian leaned in for more.</p><p>A science experiment. That’s all Henry thinks of the boy, and Basil knows Henry doesn’t believe a word - well, maybe only a few words - of the philosophies he keeps feeding to Dorian. Henry wanted to see Dorian inflamed, passionate, some switch in him activated, then step back to record the results in an orderly manner. He’d probably wear a lab coat to do it, if he could get away with it. Never mind that the boy is pure, innocent, perfect, the one uncorrupted man in all of London - no, Henry would ruin it all just to see what would happen.</p><p>Before he knows it, Basil is out of bed, pacing down the hallways to his studio, still lost in thoughts of Dorian. He’s more precious to Basil than anything else in this world, and Basil won’t let Henry get in the way. Just by sitting at Basil’s side, he resets Basil’s view of the world, makes him see every artwork, every landscape, with fresh eyes, alights a fire in Basil’s soul, makes the world as tender, as beautiful, as bursting with life as Dorian is himself, and Basil’s brush moves over the canvas in ways he’d never have dreamed of before.</p><p>The studio is flooded with moonlight, and his paintbrushes are already sitting ready for the next day. Basil picks one up, contemplates it, opens up a jar of paint. A canvas is already sitting on the stand; he dips the brush in, starts filling in a background in long quick strokes.</p><p>Painting always calms him down, and the familiar swish-and-dab motion helps to settle Basil’s thoughts a little. They drift a little, his attention half-drawn by whatever he’s painting, dwelling on random themes before settling right back on Dorian. Of course.</p><p>Dorian, with his golden hair and dreamy eyes and perfect chin and a quiet innocence to everything he does, too pure for this world. Dorian, with eyes blazing and cheeks flushed, lips parted in astonishment, drinking in every beautiful absurdity Henry manages to produce. Dorian reclined next to him, dreamy with a child’s sense of wonder. Dorian bursting into his studio, wild with passion over some girl: something Basil’s never really understood the appeal in, but Dorian Gray with that level of earnestness in him is worth any stab of envy Basil might feel.</p><p>Basil mixes a different shade of silver, adds highlights to the painting. Slowly a room materialises on the canvas, pale and mysterious. </p><p>He’s never met anyone as fascinating in his life, and no matter how many times Dorian may insult him, toss him aside like some unwanted trinket only to pick him back up the next day - hell, even if he’s only friends with Basil to stroke his own ego - Basil doesn’t care, he is wonderful and beautiful and he’s never met anyone like him. Sometimes all he wants to do is to hang onto Dorian and protect him from the corrupt world, anything that might spoil his perfection, but Basil knows it’s too late now; Dorian is too far gone for that. But he can try.</p><p>On the canvas, a form takes shape: a figure, slumped lazily over a chair in the moonlight, shadowy figures standing behind it. Basil has no idea what it means, mostly because he let his painting create itself while he was only half-paying attention. His eyes are already starting to ache. </p><p>The figure is tall and slim, head tilted upwards in an oddly familiar way. Basil adds shadows, the hint of an expression, little details in the background: the outline of a tapestry on the wall, a suggestion of texture on the padded chair.</p><p>Wouldn’t it be nice if the figure had blond hair, Basil finds himself musing. Why not. </p><p>Not that it’s meant to represent anything. Or anyone. A few strokes of silvery-yellow and it’s done.</p><p>How he would like to sleep…</p><p>And the lips. Round and full, just the slightest hint of a smirk at one corner. Probably soft, now that he thinks about it. Just paint, but if he - if <em> it </em> - were alive...</p><p>He forces the thought out of his head. Sleep is what he needs right now - that, and a chance to gather his thoughts into some coherent order.</p><p>Basil haphazardly tucks his brushes away, stuffs the painting at the back of the drying racks and stumbles to bed.</p><p>The last thought that drifts across his brain as he slides into darkness is a brief curiosity: is Dorian Gray’s skin also smooth and hard like ivory, or soft? Would it feel good, for example, against his cheek?</p><p>Just as he wonders if that might be going a little beyond ‘friendship,’, his head droops on the pillow and he nods off.</p><p>The next morning Basil Hallward is just as surprised as anyone else to find the mysterious portrait of half-meaningful swirls and blobs at the back of his studio. It’s only vaguely connected from what he remembers about the previous night, but the half-formed pose is far too intimate for his liking, as is what he can remember from his musings.</p><p>He shoves the… thing into a closet, and tries not to think about it.</p><p> </p><p>3.</p><p> </p><p>“Give my hat back, Dorian.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Again, Dorian? I am rather fond of it, you know,” Basil protests, though he knows it’s no use; what Dorian Gray wants, Dorian Gray will get. By now, Basil’s learned not to argue.</p><p>“But Basil, so am I,” Dorian says, smiling.</p><p>Basil sighs. It’s far too late at night for this, and they are also maybe a little too drunk for this. He barely even remembers how he got here, but this is pleasantly warm and sleepy and he has to admit, there are worse places to be than alone in a small room with Dorian Gray.</p><p>“Hm.” Dorian holds up the hat and contemplates it briefly. “What will you give me for it?”</p><p>“Give<em> you </em> for it?” Basil sputters. “To get my own hat back?”</p><p>“Property is theft, my dear Basil. Consider yourself duly blackmailed.”</p><p>Basil sighs, runs a hand over his eyes, but it’s barely sincere. To be here, alone with Dorian, one candle burning between them in the small room - given the choice, he’d sacrifice his entire hat collection for this without a second thought.</p><p>“What sort of payment?” he says eventually.</p><p>Dorian looks at Basil, smiles, cocks his head ever so slightly. </p><p>The room goes very, very quiet.</p><p>Basil’s cheeks heat, a loud rushing building in his ears, and he sits frozen on his chair, certain Dorian couldn’t mean what Basil fervently hopes he does. He needs to look somewhere, anywhere, not Dorian’s face, but the slight smirk is almost magnetic: he can’t look away.</p><p>Perhaps the astonishment registered on Basil’s face, perhaps Dorian is simply a mind-reader: he grins slightly at Basil’s expression and gives him the tiniest of nods. Raises his eyebrows.</p><p>Squeezes to one side of the armchair.</p><p><em> Dear God. </em> Basil’s heart is racing, breath uneven; if he were to try to speak, he’s not sure he’d be able to form coherent words. Somehow he gets up, stumbles over, collapses next to Dorian.</p><p>“So, Mr. Gray. How much for one hat?” he manages.</p><p>Dorian smiles, slips a hand around Basil’s waist, pulls him closer. Hesitates for half a moment, his wide blue eyes staring into Basil’s, before leaning forwards and bringing Basil’s lips against his.</p><p> </p><p>Basil wakes up shaking, his heart pounding as if he were still in the dream, Dorian’s fingers threading through his hair, their bodies intertwined, mouth on his ear whispering <em> finally, finally. </em> </p><p>He blinks. The moon is flooding his messy bedroom with light; the blanket tangles around his legs, pinning them in place. With a start, he notices that his pillow is clutched tightly to his chest, his face half-buried in it as if it were Dorian’s shoulder, warm flesh and blood instead of cold impassive cloth.</p><p>He’s known this was coming for a while, if he’s being completely honest with himself; there’s only so much fascination with a man that you can pass off as friendship, or innocent admiration, or pure aesthetic attraction. Strangely enough, the thought that Dorian in all likelihood doesn’t feel the same way doesn’t matter to him. It’s more pure, perhaps. If it doesn’t happen, it can never end.</p><p>But the tenderness in Dorian’s touch, the half-formed nothings whispered in his ear, the exhilaration of Dorian’s lips against his; it still feels far too vivid for just a dream. If only, if only it could be real, just for one night…</p><p>“I love you, Dorian Gray,” Basil whispers into the darkness, and it feels so good, so right after all this time, to finally voice what he’s been denying to himself all these years, he has to say it again, and again, and again. He’s still caught up in the warmth from the dream, and finally all is right with the world. No matter what, even if Dorian couldn’t care less about him, dammit, he loves the man, and -</p><p>Man.</p><p>Deep in his stomach, a cold ball of horror blooms.</p><p>Dorian is a <em> man. </em></p><p>And Basil is, too.</p><p>And two men aren’t supposed to… </p><p>His head is spinning.</p><p>Unnatural. It’s unnatural. The Devil, tempting him. Men cannot love other men, not in <em> that </em>way, cannot kiss, cannot - </p><p>It felt so right, didn’t it? But Dorian is a man, and so is Basil, and it’s unnatural, a sin, it’s <em> wrong</em>. </p><p>He still feels the warmth, the tenderness from the dream earlier, but it’s fading rapidly. Every time he relives another of Dorian’s embraces, a stab of nausea goes through him. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.</p><p>
  <em> “What will you give me for it?” Dream-Dorian says, the hint of a smirk on his face. </em>
</p><p>No. No. He can’t. </p><p>
  <em> Half a grin. Eyebrows raised, head tilted so suggestively, he wants nothing more… </em>
</p><p>Basil buries his head under the pillow, trying to force the image out of his mind. Dorian stays.</p><p>
  <em> ...face flushed, heart pounding, Dorian’s body hot against his own… </em>
</p><p>God, what has he done?</p><p>“Get out,” Basil whispers. “Get out of my head, I don’t want you here, it’s <em> wrong</em>…”</p><p>
  <em> Is it, my dear Basil? Is it? </em>
</p><p>Is it?</p><p>Yes. Yes, it is, and he hates himself even for thinking otherwise.</p><p>Probably just a few spoonfuls of any of his paints would be enough to kill him. One mouthful, death within days at the most, no one has to know about this shame. The honourable way out. Stop this in its tracks before it can go any further, before he can commit any more sins, put a clean end to this horrid whispering <em> thing </em>inside him. It’s the only way.</p><p>Get out of bed, force down the dizziness. Stumble down the hallway, down to the studio - is this the last time he’ll open the door again? - pause in front of the canvas. He should clean up before he goes…</p><p>No. No, he can’t waste time, won’t let himself be tempted any further. Head towards the closet - his hands are trembling - pull open the door - will the long squeak be the last thing he hears? - grab a jar, any jar. Sit down. </p><p>Screw open the lid. The fumes making him light-headed.</p><p>It’s for the best. </p><p>I’m sorry, Father. </p><p>Basil takes a deep breath, swallows down the nausea; with trembling hands he lifts the jar.</p><p>It’s halfway to his lips before common sense catches up with him.</p><p> </p><p>It was just a dream, after all. </p><p>Just a desire. And desires can be stopped. It doesn’t mean he needs to act on them. </p><p>All he needs to do is to force it down, try and forget about it, never think about it until this… <em> thing </em> goes away.</p><p>Basil can live. Will live.</p><p>The jar slips through his fingers and crashes on the ground, a few glass shards piercing into his foot; the pain helps to clear his mind, brings him back to reality.  For a few minutes he simply sits, clutching the edges of his chair with trembling fingers, trying to calm his breathing. Even the small reflection of light off a paint-stained knife in the corner seems miraculous to him, every detail in the world he was just inches away from never seeing again.</p><p>Slowly he gets up, still marvelling at the feeling of the night air on his face. There’s a mop in the closet for this type of situation - he needs to get the stain off his floor, and also off of his soul, soon. Little glass shards crunch into his feet as he walks, and every bite of pain is a reminder of how lucky he is. </p><p>He opens the closet. It’s been a while since he’s been in here, he has to rummage inside the chaos to find it. A shadow moves, and a new canvas catches his eye. The painting.</p><p>And just like that, another stab of shame. That accursed night, when he let himself give into whatever impulse came along, let himself moon over Dorian shamelessly without even thinking… the Devil inside him, tempting him, and he just <em> let </em> it. Let himself get carried away in what he thought was simple admiration, let the darkness corrupt him, let himself love another <em> man </em> without thinking about the consequences.</p><p>He can live - and that’s a miracle, he knows that. But the <em> thing </em> inside him needs to go away. Whatever it takes, he must drive this darkness out of himself.</p><p>Basil slips back into his room, perches on the edge of the bed and opens up a Bible. He vows not to sleep until morning.</p><p> </p><p>4.</p><p>It’s not that simple, of course. Nothing is ever that simple.</p><p>The confessional is small and cramped, smelling of old dust and the guilt of thousands. Basil enters, kneels, bows his head, waits.</p><p>After an eternity, a voice. “My son?”</p><p>“For -” A lump rises in Basil’s throat; for a second, he cannot speak. With Herculean effort, he forces it down. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”</p><p> </p><p>He devotes hours every day to Bible study, searching endlessly for something to show him how to go on. He reads over and over again the descriptions of Hell, of fire and brimstone, clouds of locusts, God’s wrath raining down upon the sinners, and imagines himself among their number. There are days when every passage seems to mock him, every verse tell of the glory of God destined for all but him. He prays; he begs; he reads, reads, reads. He tells himself there is no such person as Dorian Gray.</p><p>Every night he kneels at his bedside, asking for forgiveness. God does not reply.</p><p> </p><p>Basil cannot make out anything of the priest besides a pair of shrewish eyes, gleaming in the dark. </p><p>“I have…” Why is talking so impossible? As if God himself - or, possibly, the Devil - is forcing his throat closed, choking the words before they can come out. “Father, lately I have been… tempted.”</p><p>“Temptation itself is not a sin,” the priest reminds him gently. “It is when we give in to the temptation, submit to our earthly desires, that God is displeased.” He coughs. “What has been tempting you, my son?”</p><p>Basil opens his mouth, closes it again. His face burns. He cannot breathe.</p><p>“Take your time,” the priest says.</p><p> </p><p>He blatantly refuses to paint men anymore. Landscapes, still lives, Portrait Of Lady So-and-So in pearls: he keeps up as much as he can, using his art as an escape from his troubles. But men, especially young and good-looking men, he cannot bring himself to paint, to trace his brush over the lines of their faces, the contours of their figures in such an intimate way. He is sick, he says. He has an appointment. He cannot find one tube of the precise shade of blue he wants in all of London.</p><p>His paintings take on a darker tone. Storms, deep misty mountains, visions of the Apocalypse. For a few precious hours, the turmoil in his soul finds peace in the flurries of strokes on the canvas, a dark delight in the horrors he sees every night manifested in the day. Admirers wonder if he is ill. </p><p>And he knows they’re right: Basil is ill. Sick. Corrupting. Rotted. Just not in the way they imagine.</p><p> </p><p>“Matters of the flesh,” Basil says, his fists clenched. The air is hot and stuffy inside the tiny booth, but he must stay. </p><p>An inquisitive silence from the other end.</p><p>“I know it is a sin, I force the… desires out of my head, but they come back, more numerous than before.”</p><p>The priest waits a minute for him to go on. Basil doesn’t know if he can.</p><p>A slight sigh. “And the… object of these <em> desires </em>, my son?”</p><p>“It’s…” His hands are shaking. He can’t do it.</p><p>“It’s... a woman, Father.”</p><p>He hates himself.</p><p> </p><p>Henry sends notes, asking where he’s been. Basil scribbles out a line or two - <em> busy, haven’t been feeling well, afraid I must decline, thank you - </em>and sends them back. Where Henry is, Dorian is too. He must not tempt himself.</p><p>One day, a note from Dorian arrives. Graceful handwriting on beautiful paper, the hurt evident in every line. It pulls at his heart to read it. For a moment, he hesitates.</p><p>Basil tears the note up and finds a horrible pleasure in watching it burn.</p><p> </p><p>His knees aching from so long on the floor, Basil describes the ‘woman’ as best he can. Young. Golden-haired. Perfect. Every word feels like a betrayal. </p><p>“Hm,” the priest says after a while. “So far you have not actually committed sin. Have you considered Paul’s words? 1st Corinthians: ‘it is better to marry than to burn with passion’.”</p><p>Fear clutches at Basil’s chest. “I… fear it’s impossible, Father.”</p><p>“How so?”</p><p>“She -” how wrong it feels! God, forgive him for lying in a church - “already has a suitor.”</p><p>An aristocrat, he tells the priest, improvising wildly. Philosopher. Charming enough, in his way, a former - he hesitates slightly on the word, a twinge of pain in his chest - friend of his. He’s rambling, he knows, but so much easier to talk about some faceless man than about Dorian. And it’s all too easy to let a note of jealousy slip into his voice, for reasons he cannot understand… </p><p>He stops rather abruptly when he realizes he’s describing Henry.</p><p> </p><p>Nighttime is the worst. The horrors that shiver through him in the thick darkness as he lies awake - he sleeps with the curtains closed now - are terrible enough, but more awful still are the visions when he sleeps. Basil can control his conscious thought, force down his worst desires during the day. At night, he has no choice.</p><p>Because his dreams aren’t terrors: they’re golden, blissful, passionate. Him and Dorian, together, alone, every night better (worse, Basil tells himself sternly; worse) than the next. Heat on heat, Dorian whispering unforgivable sweetnesses in his ear, really far more skin than sensible. He stays up all night, forcing himself awake, just to escape the dreams. The dreams stay.</p><p>And every night he wakes up shaking, wreathed in sweat, heart pounding. Feeling as if he could fly.</p><p>For a few minutes, at the most. Then he realizes what he’s done, and could die from the shame.</p><p> </p><p>After what feels like hours, Basil mumbles an ‘amen, thank you Father’ and stumbles out of the confession booth, his head spinning from standing up too quickly. If anything, he feels worse than before: every stanza in the book of Proverbs will do him no good if it’s a woman they’re describing. </p><p>Leviticus. Corinthians. Romans. Timothy. He knows every verse by now. Man cannot lie with man. God forbids it. Only Hell awaits those who disobey.  Adam and Eve. Sodom and Gomorrah. His own chance at paradise, slipping farther and farther from his grasp with every immoral dream he forces in vain from his mind.</p><p>At this point, Basil doesn’t know whether he can make himself care anymore. Exhausted from too many short nights, worn down from the endless cycles of doubt and self-denial, the constant pressures of his art, his religion, his own body tearing at him. He’s just numb.</p><p>He slumps over on a bench outside, buries his face in his hands and forces the world to go silent. </p><p> </p><p>He comes home to a note on his desk. Some party at Henry’s. They’re celebrating Lady Someone’s birthday, a most happy occasion, I know you’ve been ill but we hope you can come, blah blah blah. Bring plenty of alcohol.</p><p>Dozens of lords and ladies - Basil guesses that he might at least vaguely know, at most, half of them - packed into a room or two, all more cheerful than he, and the ones not wondering who he is wondering where he’s been. Plus Henry. Plus Dorian. Plus far too much wine.</p><p>What the hell, Basil thinks. Why not. </p><p> </p><p>5.</p><p>The party is as he predicted. Too many people. Too much awkward small talk and/or questions as to where he’s been. Too much noise and heat and laughter. Basil doesn’t care; anything would be better than his lonely cold bedroom, with only a prayer and a bottle of whiskey for company.</p><p>He’s not entirely sure how many drinks he’s had at this point; it’s enough so that his head is rather blurry, the world is spinning slightly, and everything feels marginally more cheerful. Truth be told, he’s not quite sure how he got here, either, or what he’s doing. It’s fine. He’s seen a handful of people he actually knows - mostly through Henry - as well as the man himself, briefly. Mostly he wants to be left alone. </p><p>Across the room, he catches a flash of golden hair.</p><p>Basil’s breath catches. Dorian leans against the wall, chatting with some woman, still as young and perfect as ever; there’s a polite smile on his face, but the glaze of boredom over his eyes betrays him. Basil stands perfectly still, watching his every move. </p><p>After two agonizing minutes, during which the lady continues to talk animatedly and Dorian grins once or twice - <em> that smile, </em> Basil thinks, <em> that accursed smile </em> - but otherwise looks progressively more bored, she finally moves away. Dorian steps to the side and slumps in relief. His eyes flit across the room, land on Basil. His face lights up.</p><p><em> Don’t</em>, the last thinking part of Basil’s brain whispers. </p><p>Dorian pushes himself up and makes his way across the room, stumbling slightly. Apparently he isn’t too sober, either.</p><p>
  <em> You promised yourself.  </em>
</p><p>His gaze is locked on Basil’s, and the sight of those eyes again, after so many nights of forcing it down, is enough to send a shiver down Basil’s spine. He didn’t realize how awful the constant pressure in his chest was until it was lifted.</p><p>
  <em> But you can’t - </em>
</p><p>“Hi,” Dorian mumbles, collapsing next to him. His cheeks are adorably flushed from the heat.</p><p>
  <em> Ah, screw it. </em>
</p><p>Basil opens his mouth to talk, but nothing comes out. Dorian’s face, finally real and so close to his, is making his head go fuzzy in a way that even the alcohol couldn’t.</p><p>“I was worried about you,” Dorian says, peering at him. “I haven’t seen you in weeks. Henry says you were ill. Are you alright?”</p><p>After the good two seconds it takes him to process what Dorian just said, Basil nods, a little too enthusiastically. “Very. Very much alright. I mean - I wasn’t -” is he slurring? is he talking at least semi-coherently? God, please don’t let him make a fool of himself in front of Dorian - “but yes, yes, I’m fine.” He clears his throat. “Fine.”</p><p>“Good,” Dorian replies, without any indication he noticed anything amiss. “That… that is good.” Basil can smell the alcohol on his breath.</p><p>“I missed you,” he adds.</p><p>Just that is enough to start Basil’s heart racing again. He breathes a brief “missed you too”, knowing it doesn’t nearly cover what he’s been going through in the past months, then falls silent again. He knows he should use this moment, that he’ll never get a chance like this again with Dorian next to him and nothing in their way and alcohol shutting down the part of him that still objects. Unfortunately, said alcohol is also shutting down the part of his brain responsible for coming up with halfway intelligent remarks, and this tense dreamy half-silence between them is enough for now.</p><p>“Another drink?” Dorian says absentmindedly, handing him one.</p><p>Basil takes it gladly.</p><p> </p><p>He’s sure they had some sort of conversation.</p><p>He’s sure something must have happened to get them where they are right now.</p><p>Basil remembers the heat and the noise of a hundred bodies’ merriment while he crouched on the sidelines, Dorian leaning onto him drowsily. He remembers Dorian complaining about the heat, about Henry abandoning him, how Basil himself wasn’t feeling too good with all the people. Remembers Dorian leading him, with a disturbing familiarity with Henry’s house, to… somewhere cool and dark and quiet, that was all Basil cared about. The rest is a drunken blur.</p><p>And somehow, this all led to them sitting against a wall, Dorian’s head on Basil’s shoulder, possibly half-asleep already, Basil running his fingers through Dorian’s hair absentmindedly. His back is already aching and his hands are cold, but Dorian is warm and this moment is magical and he doesn’t want to ruin it. </p><p>Eventually, he has to shift, and he feels Dorian stirring beside him as he does. “Where… where are we?” He speaks in just above a whisper, but it echoes and startles them both after so long a silence.</p><p>“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Dorian responds, and Basil can hear the smile in his voice. “Does it matter?” His fingers, suddenly warm on Basil’s, send sparks rushing through Basil’s hands and into his chest.</p><p>Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s fairly sure he shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he is.</p><p>His legs cramping, Basil slouches another inch down the wall; Dorian, limp and unsturdy, doesn’t adjust in time for the sudden lack of support and collapses on top of him, his face an inch from Basil’s. For a good ten seconds they sit and still Dorian makes no move, Basil must act now, he'll never get another chance like this. But he shouldn’t. He promised himself. But it’s a promise he doesn't know if he can keep anymore.</p><p>“Hi,” Dorian breathes, lips slightly parted. Their noses almost touching. He starts to stir, putting a hand on the wall for support.</p><p>Basil rises up slightly and leans the last inch forwards, pressing his lips against Dorian’s. </p><p>They’re kind of soft, he supposes. Nice enough. Slightly cooler than you’d expect. And as the voice inside him murmurs <em> finally, finally</em>; as he feels Dorian give a slight twitch of surprise but stay where he is, pinching Basil’s hand a little more tightly, Basil is almost too tired and a little too drunk to realize: this isn’t quite how he imagined it.</p><p>After a few seconds he pulls away. Dorian is still looking at him in a sort of half-lidded, drowsy way; he blinks once, looking more surprised than anything else. Not horrified, not amazed, not disgusted. Just sort of faintly bewildered, as if Basil had just mentioned that he enjoyed recreational tap-dancing as a hobby in addition to his painting.  For a good minute they sit, frozen, Basil watching intently for any sign, any twitch of the lips, crease of the eyebrows to tell him the horror - or, God help him, joy? - of what he’s just done.</p><p>Dorian looks up at Basil, smiles uncertainly, then turns away against the wall. Within minutes, he’s asleep.</p><p>Basil still can’t tear his eyes away. Dorian’s hair is tousled, hanging across his face in limp strands, his usually perfect skin blotched and ruddy from the alcohol, jaw hanging slightly slack, one arm draped across his belly. Basil’s heart is still pounding, but it can’t hide the tight clench in his gut, the cold expansion of disappointment slowly pooling in his chest.</p><p>A door slams somewhere far off, jolting him back into reality. What a fool he’s been.</p><p>But the quiet. But the warmth, the magic, the electricity between them. But the way Dorian’s hair drapes over his face, fluttering every time he breathes out. But everything they had, before that accursed dream that blew everything open.</p><p>Just one more minute, Basil tells himself. And only because Dorian is slumped at an awkward angle, his head pressed into a corner in a way that makes Basil’s own neck ache just looking at him. One more minute, to adjust him slightly, spare Dorian a crick in his neck the next morning on top of the horrible headache he’s invariably going to wake up with. Then say his goodbyes: for forever this time, because Basil knows he can’t face Dorian again after tonight. Best to get it over with, one last tender moment before Dorian wakes up hating him for what he’s done.</p><p>Slowly, Basil slides a hand under Dorian’s shoulder, lifts him gently, adjusts his head so it’s propped against the wall, cradling him - he emphasizes this very clearly - <em> only </em> for support, drapes an arm around a nearby potted plant, tilts him slightly -</p><p>Dorian coughs; his eyes flutter open. “Basil?”</p><p>Basil nearly drops him. </p><p>For one horrible second he debates staying like this for a while longer, just the two of them, Dorian’s body warm in his arms, then common sense takes over and he jumps back. Pulls away and pushes himself up, nearly collapsing again as his legs regain their feeling all at once. Starts for the door. Dorian can’t see him like this.</p><p>“Basil…” Dorian’s voice is dreamy, with a hint of a smile in it. “Basil, wait…” </p><p>Basil yanks the door open and stumbles through, forcing himself as far as the next hallway before dropping onto the next armchair and burying his face in the cushions. He’s ruined everything.</p><p>With terrible anticipation he waits for Dorian to follow. Minutes pass, then half an hour, and still he stays, curled up and watching, the alcohol clouding his brain making it progressively harder to string two thoughts together, but he knows he must stay awake, must keep watch for… something awful, must not let his eyes close…</p><p>
  <em>It is purely for historical purposes that your chronicler reports: Lord Henry Wotton was decidedly puzzled to find his two friends curled up at opposite corners of his house the following morning, Basil dozing uneasily, croaking bleary protests as Henry summoned a hansom to get him home and into bed, Dorian having dreamt blissfully against the cold stone floor the whole night. When questioned, Gray simply looked puzzled and mentioned something about ‘Basil behaving oddly, hope he’s feeling alright’ before smiling and readily admitting he had no memory whatsoever of the previous night. Hallward, when interviewed, <strike>froze and departed rapidly; sounds speculated to be muffled weeping were heard from around the corner</strike> declined to comment.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Every damned splitting headache in the world will never be enough to atone for what he’s done last night. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>feel free to skip this one, it doesn't really fit in</p><p>I honestly just wanted a bit more angst and needed a fifth thing so here you go</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>1.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The corruption of eighteen years, waves of time breaking against the cliffs and battering their edges down into nothing, have somehow never touched Dorian Gray. Only his eyes, haunted and alight with the manic fire of self-preservation, betray him if you look closely. And very few have ever looked closely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basil Hallward has never looked closely; now he never will. Will never need to. What’s the point in peering through the windows of a man’s soul when the entire building has collapsed into rubble? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pain is terrible, of course. Being stabbed is not a pleasant experience, nor is struggling to speak, to move, your voice choking in your throat as your own blood pools around you. Nor is the knowledge that you have, at most, five minutes left of life, that you have to die here of all places, alone and in agony, slumped in some dusty attic that no one will even think to search for half a year. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Far more bitter, though, is the betrayal. Dorian’s blue eyes, alight with a hatred Basil would never have thought possible and there, mirrored in the portrait, those same gaunt eyes, alive with mockery. Every tear of the knife seemed to magnify the eyes that would not leave his mind, his desperate gurgles for life cause them to sneer, to laugh, to gloat over Basil’s fate. Even now, his face pressed into his arms, the life steadily draining from him with every second that passes, he sees them. The hatred in them betrays everything he once thought Dorian was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes a bid for air and chokes, an iron curtain of blood in his way; every cough is another stab to the chest, and the world goes dark around the edges. So many things he left unfinished, so much he wanted to do. His painting hasn’t been the same without Dorian in his life, but how much of the radiance that had inspired the grace of his brushstrokes was ever truly there, how much a façade about as real as a few smudges of paint on canvas? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A </span>
  <em>
    <span>clank</span>
  </em>
  <span> of metal and the soft opening and closing of a door, and only Basil is left. With his last strength he gropes for the figure to stay, he does not want to be alone in his last seconds. But Dorian is gone, and with him the last bit of warmth from the room and from his heart, and the world has gone very, very dark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His last thought: what could have gone so wrong?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His last act: a choked whimper that becomes a death rattle, that becomes total silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Propped against the wall, the first trickle of blood slips down the portrait’s hands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dorian Gray re-enters the room, looks at the corpse. Shudders, looks away and turns for the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quiet creak as it opens and closes and, once more, no one breathes in the small dusty attic room.</span>
</p>
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